


Salting the Wound

by imperfectcircle



Series: Stories by theme: Crimes, heists and cons [1]
Category: Lewis - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-18
Updated: 2009-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectcircle/pseuds/imperfectcircle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A death at a dinner party leads Lewis and Hathaway to investigate a group of teachers, doctors and other pillars of the community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salting the Wound

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** None ([see policy](http://imperfectcircle.livejournal.com/29823.html))  
> **With thanks:** To [](http://dr-biscuit.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://dr-biscuit.livejournal.com/)**dr_biscuit** for beta, cheerleading and being made of awesome. All mistakes are, of course, mine.

"Dude," said Devi, trying to keep the laughter from her voice and failing miserably. "Are you really going to eat all that?"

Smriti pulled a face at her, two parts defiant little sister to one part amused, and made as if to hug the plate to her chest. "That or die trying," she said.

Lianne laughed at that, then slung an arm round Smriti's shoulders as she said, "If you will cook such delicious food, Devi."

Devi shrugged. It was a fair cop: she did cook amazingly well. "It's okay, you can tell me," she said modestly. "I'm a genius."

George and Henry were smiling up at her with matched expressions of fond pride. If there was one thing she could do-- Well, no, if there was one thing she could do, it was a flawless gastric endoscopy. But if there were two things she could do, the other was host a damned fine dinner party.

"You're a genius," they chorused obediently.

As if on cue, Vivek started crying in the next room.

"Love," Devi said to Henry. She smiled an apology at him, trying not to feel guilty. They had a deal. They had a _deal_. "Do you mind?"

He did, of course, and she knew it, but bless him, he returned her smile and kissed her quickly on the lips before getting up to go see to the baby. "It's my job," he said, and she tried not to take it as a reproach.

She turned back to the others, to see Smriti and Lianne gazing into each other's eyes and George looking tactfully away. It was too bad Lucy hadn't been able to make it: it would have been good to have another single person around, keeping George company when the couples got too much.

Still, still.

From the next room, the sounds of Henry's every-so-slightly off-key singing floated through.

Smriti's mouth twitched. "You married him," she said pointedly.

Devi tried a big sisterly glare. It didn't work, of course, but nor did murder, and at least this way got less blood on the carpet.

"Hey," Lianne said, hitting the side of Smriti's head gently. "At least he's looking after the baby. You have to be the least aunt-ly aunt I've ever met."

Smriti whispered something into her ear that made her blush.

Devi took a deep breath and reminded herself that her little sister did not have sex. She and Lianne just cuddled. Chastely. In separate rooms.

"You're embarrassing George," she said quickly.

George tipped his glass to her. "If you like."

"Love," Henry called through from the other room, sounding a little worried. "Would you mind--?"

Eight months. Eight months and she still couldn't keep her heart from leaping to her throat whenever there was a problem with Vivek. It was probably just wind. Or something. She was halfway through the door before she remembered to excuse herself.

"I'll just be--"

"Go," George said fondly.

In the next room, Vivek and Henry were engaged in a battle of wills.

"He's more stubborn than me," Henry complained, not for the first time.

She took her son from his arms with a sigh. "What's wrong?" she whispered into Vivek's hair. "What's wrong?"

There was a thump and a shriek from the next room. "George!"

===

It was the rock'n'roll lifestyle, Tyler reflected as he scooped another dollop of mash onto some pimple-faced youth's tray, that really made each day worth getting up for. The dizzying highs, the terrifying lows, they were all part and parcel of being in the catering business. You would not believe how many women his GNVQ in Food Services attracted. Even Lianne the Lesbian wanted a piece of this food servicing arse. No, this food servicing _ass_: he was so cool, he and his regulation overalls, he was almost American.

Yeah, Tyler was cool with a capital Coo. Health and safety ought to file a report, because he was on fire. He was--

He was kidding no one, and he was getting dirty looks from pimple-face number fifty-seven for not serving out the mash fast enough.

It was a glamorous life, his.

After mash, he was on washing up duty until his shift ended in three, no, two hours and forty-one minutes. It was going to be glorious. He was going to wash so hard, pimple-face number fifty-seven could use the reflection in his plate to discover just how ugly he really was.

Yeah. Tyler Jones loved his job.

"Hi, Tyler," Lianne the Lesbian greeted him.

It wasn't that Tyler didn't like Lianne -- she was hot, she was funny, she knew his name -- it was just that she was a walking, talking judgement on the futility of his hopes and dreams. He wished she weren't a lesbian with the same hopeless longing that he wished his shift would end early, that he wished England would win the World Cup, that he wished he'd never fucked up badly enough to end up here.

"Hi, Lianne," he said. "You all right?"

And because Lianne the Lesbian wasn't Lianne the Lying Lesbian, she said, "Not really," and Tyler fell a little bit more in love with her.

"Yeah? Me neither," he said. "You still not smoking?"

"Nope."

"Hey," he said, trying to mean it, "at least that's something."

She gave him a smile. Or, at least, she tried to move the corners of her mouth upwards. It wasn't her best work, but points for effort. "Well, chin up, or some such bollocks."

"Yeah," he agreed, and made sure she got a bit of the mash without too many suspicious lumps in.

And the sad thing was, that really was going to be the high-light of his pathetic day. Ten words traded with a woman who couldn't even fake a smile for him. What was he going to do for an encore, get drunk on cheap cider and phone up all his exes in alphabetic order?

Yes, it was a glamorous life, his, and what sucked the most was that he deserved every last day of it.

===

"Henry Monkford," announced Lewis. "What do we know?"

James handed him a cup of piss-poor coffee and followed him as they made their way through Broad Street. "Rising star of the tennis world turned house husband; one wife, one son, one book deal to talk about the above; best friend murdered at a dinner party he hosted three days ago."

"You disapprove," Lewis observed.

"Of murder, sir?" James took a sip of his own coffee. Yes, still dreadful.

"Of Monkford."

James took a moment to consider this. "Not really, sir. If it makes him happy." And who was he to disapprove of happiness?

"Talk to me about the victim, then," said Lewis, changing tack rather more pointedly than was warranted. "George Bloom."

"Dr George Bloom," James took over, "34, single, close friend of the Monkfords. Died Saturday evening from an overdose of potassium chloride administered orally. Someone swapped it for salt, sir." _A fine and dangerous season._

"Stop it," Lewis said.

James made to protest. He hadn't actually said anything, after all.

"I can hear you thinking it."

"Thinking what, sir?"

Lewis just scowled and took another gulp of his coffee. "God, this stuff is appalling."

"Sir," James agreed. It seemed safest to follow Lewis' lead on this, as bloody ever.

Lewis turned to peer at him suspiciously. "Are you being particularly irritating today, or am I just in foul mood?"

"I couldn't possibly comment, sir."

Lewis nodded grimly to himself, as if his worst suspicions had been confirmed. "I thought as much. What's eating you, Hathaway?"

James almost missed his stride at the question. "Sir?" he prevaricated. They had a long and healthy tradition of not talking about this sort of thing, and he saw no reason to start now.

"Oh, never mind. I'm sure whatever it is, it'll turn up at the least convenient moment possible in this investigation." Lewis gave another reproachful look at his coffee and then handed the cup back to Hathaway, their fingers almost touching, as they rounded the corner onto Cornmarket.

"Sir," James agreed. "George Bloom had no immediate family; by all accounts, the Monkfords -- Henry and Devi -- were his closest friends."

"Who else was there that evening?"

James paused to throw their half-empty cups of coffee into a bin. "Just two others: Devi Monkford's sister, Smriti Chopra, and her partner, Lianne Bishop."

Lewis ran a hand over his face. Then, sounding tired, "Why did no one else die?"

The thought had occurred to James, too. "Witness statements suggest no one else salted their food, sir, though when questioned, everyone claimed not to know the salaric habits of the other possible victims."

"The salaric habits?"

"Sir."

"Right. Who else had access to the kitchen? Who else knew Bloom would be there? Is it possible Bloom wasn't the intended victim, or wasn't the only intended victim, that evening? Answers, Hathaway?"

What else was there to say? "Sir."

===

Dr Hobson looked particularly grim when she greeted Lewis and James in the halls of the station. She did have a cup of coffee in each hand, though, so James was prepared to forgive and forget all traces of austerity.

"Right, you two," she said in her special tone of voice for talking to children, the mentally incompetent and police officers. "George Bloom was a friend of mine, Devi Monkford is a friend of mine, and you are going to pull your collective finger out on this one."

Best if Lewis were to handle this one. James just took his coffee and stayed quiet.

"Our collective finger," Lewis said, after a pause into which he had clearly been hoping James would jump, "is about as far out as it will get."

James nodded. Any further out and they'd be in serious danger of getting some work done.

Hobson gave him a stern look, as if she could read the comment on his forehead.

Lewis rallied, taking a grateful gulp of the coffee she'd handed him. "What can you tell us about the manner of Dr Bloom's death, then?"

"Potassium chloride. Not quite enough to poison a well man, but George wasn't: he already had a history of heart disease, and was on medication that meant he couldn't excrete potassium. It didn't take nearly as much as he ingested to provoke a heart attack. Devi didn't spot it was poison at the time; it looked like a perfectly ordinary heart attack until we examined him later."

"Could she have saved him," James asked, "if she'd spotted it right away?"

Lewis shot him a look. "There's a time and a place," he said, but Hobson waved him off.

"No, no, it's a good question. No, not without specialist equipment she wouldn't have had lying around the place."

"Right," Lewis said. "Anything else you can tell us? Why didn't _he_ spot it at the time?"

"Potassium chloride can taste just like bitter, not-very-salty salt. Knowing George, he would have used some, tasted it, then used some more."

"Thank you," Lewis said, gesturing with a tilt of his head for James to follow him away from Hobson.

"Collective finger," Hobson reminded him as she turned to walk away. "Out."

"Out," Lewis agreed.

They waited until they were round the corner from Hobson to exchange a look. That, James reflected, was tact.

"You heard the woman," Lewis said. "For once, we're actually to solve the case."

"Sounds like a plan," James allowed.

"Right. So, could someone else have been the target? I want to know about the Monkfords' health, about Chopra and Bishop, about anyone who was invited to the party and didn't show up. I want names, I want motives, I want to wrap this case up in a tidy bow and give it to the good doctor as an early Christmas present."

"Sir."

===

James brought the round in. Orange juice for him, scotch for his lordship.

"So, I want to kill Henry Monkford," Lewis greeted him. "Why?"

"Wife angry about the book deal?" James offered. "You're a doctor, you have access to dangerous chemicals, you want to get rid of your husband?"

"Then why wait for a dinner party? Why not kill him in the privacy of your own home?"

"Plausible deniability?" James said, but there was clutching at straws, and then there was clutching where you'd heard a hint of a rumour that someone had once seen a straw.

"Or maybe I'm having an affair, I want to off the husband but lay the blame squarely at someone else's door."

James didn't even bother to shake his head at that one.

"Right then, maybe I want to kill Devi Monkford," Lewis continued. "Again, why?"

"Sibling rivalry?" James tried. "Jealous of the perfect house, the perfect house husband?"

"Or maybe it's the house husband," Lewis said, now looking at his drink rather than James. "He gives up his career for her -- the man changes his whole life for her -- and she doesn't appreciate him?"

"He did choose to change his life," James pointed out, a little stung. Lewis was well within his rights not to change his own life one damned bit, but-- "I think he thought it was worth it. Sir."   
"Right you are." Lewis kept his eyes firmly on his drink. "And where'd he get the poison from, anyway?"

"Suppose you wanted to kill the sister, then," James prompted, changing the subject with all the grace of a wounded dog. "Smriti Chopra. Why would you want to do that?"

"Lovers' tiff? Sibling rivalry again? Jealous of not being trapped in a gruelling job and a loveless marriage?"

"Maybe Smriti was having an affair with Henry, and someone wanted to get either of them, didn't care which," James said.

"Maybe, maybe. Who are we missing?"

James took another gentle sip of his orange juice. It hit the spot not one bit. "Lianne Bishop, sir, and Lucy Ashe. The latter was invited but dropped out at the last minute: she had to look after her mother."

"And why do I want to kill them?"

Honestly, he had no idea. It seemed a little early in the game for so much guesswork, but if that was how Lewis wanted to play it, James remained, as in all things, his humble servant.

"You're thinking insubordinate thoughts," Lewis said. "I can tell: you've not said anything for almost a minute."

Bloody mind-readers, the lot of them.

"I was just thinking, sir, that perhaps the murderer didn't care who he killed," James hazarded.

"No you weren't," Lewis said, "but let's try that on for size."

===  
===

Devi gave Smriti a long, measured look. It didn't do any good, of course, but it made her feel better.

Smriti twisted her mouth into something close to a smile. "Hey, hey," she said, reaching out to hit Devi on the shoulder. "It'll be okay."

How? How would it be okay? "He's dead," Devi said. "He's dead, and--" And she'd been sleeping with him. He was dead, and she'd been sleeping with him, and only Smriti had known.

Smriti shifted on the couch to wrap her arms around Devi "Hey, hey," she said again, sounding for all the world as if she were comforting Vivek. "It's okay. It'll be okay."

Devi rested her forehead on Smriti's shoulder. George was dead.

"I don't know why, and I don't know that I want to know," Smriti said into her hair. "But I know it'll be okay. You're my sister and I love you, and it'll be okay."

Devi let herself cry. She clutched onto her her sister like she had when Smriti was just a baby, letting herself believe that as long as she could hold on and feel the warm of family protecting her, holding her close, she'd be safe. She'd be safe.

But all things had to end, and the safety was only ever illusory, so eventually she drew back from Smriti and into herself.

"It'll be okay," she said, trying for a smile of her own and missing by a good mile or so.

"Yes," Smriti agreed. "You don't have to worry about anything. Lianne and I, we'll take Vivek if you need some time-- if you need some time alone?"

"You mean Lianne will take care of Vivek and you'll do her marking for her," Devi said sternly. "Teachers, hah."

"Perks of keeping it in the profession," Smriti said, trying to make her tone light. Her face fell as she realised what she'd said. "Not that, I mean--"

Devi waved it off. George would still be dead whether Smriti kept her foot out of her mouth or not.

"Hey," Smriti said once again. "I'll cook you something nice, you'll--"

"You'll never cook me something nice, dude," Devi said. "You're my sister and I love you, but you can't cook."

"Okay, sure, Lianne will cook you something nice, and you can have a relaxing evening of grief and repression."

That sounded more likely. Especially the grief and repression. Devi sighed. "Thank you. Really."

Smriti just hugged her again.

===

Lewis drove them to the Chopra-Bishop residence. He slammed the car door behind him with more force than was strictly necessary; James couldn't blame him. This wasn't going to be fun.

The door was answered by a short, white woman with overly blonde hair holding an Indian-looking baby. That couldn't be Bishop or Chopra.

"Can I help you?"

James flashed his ID. "I'm Sergeant Hathaway, this is Inspector Lewis. We're here to see Ms Chopra or Ms Bishop."

The woman's eyes flicked from James to Lewis and back again, sizing them up. In her arms, the baby stared at them with big eyes. James fought the urge to stare back.

"They're just out at the shops, getting something or other to do with cabbages, I think, though why I don't know," she said. "Would you like to come in and wait for them? I don't know how long they'll be, but there's tea. I'm supposed to be with my mother this evening, but when Lianne called, you know."

"Thank you," Lewis said. "And you are?"

"Oh!" To be fair to the woman, she seemed genuinely embarrassed she'd forgotten to introduce herself. "I'm Lucy Ashe. I was a friend of George's. Well, of Lianne's. But I knew George. You are here about George, aren't you? There's tea."

"Yes," James said. "If there's anything you can tell us about Dr Bloom, anything at all, that would be most helpful."

She ushered them inside, cooing to the boy as she did so. "And this is Vivek," she said. "Devi and Henry's boy. Smriti offered to look after him for a while, which means Lianne has to look after him, which means Lianne called in some favours, and now I'm left--" She paused. "Well, holding the baby." Then, to the baby in question, she added, "Isn't that right? Isn't that right?" She looked up. "I'm sorry. I run at the mouth a little, sometimes. Tea?"

The child, too young to take offence at being patronised, just gurgled back at her happily. James willed it to vomit on her, then felt faintly ashamed.

Not, though, quite ashamed enough not to need to hide his smile when moments later it did.

"If you did that with the power of your mind--" Lewis muttered as Ashe wandered off to find something to wipe herself down with.

"Sir?" James said innocently.

"Not the biggest fan of babies, are you?" Lewis said.

"What gave it away?"

But then Ashe and said baby were back in the room, both looking slightly less the worse for wear.

"You're good with him," Lewis said encouragingly, taking a seat while James stood behind him, awkward as ever.

"Thanks," Ashe replied. "I love taking care of Vivek. He's such a sweetheart, and, well, after mine died--" She paused, looking slightly embarrassed again. "I'm sorry. What I meant to say there was, would you like some tea while you wait? They have rather an extensive collection, so I'm sure we can find something you'll like."

James smiled in grateful sympathy. Tea was much easier to deal with than dead babies.

===

Smriti sighed. "At least she called me 'dude'. That's something, right?" No one who was hopelessly mired in depression would use the word 'dude'.

Lianne squeezed her hand tightly. Then, stroking the back of Smriti's hand with her thumb, she said, "Yeah. Yeah, sweet, it is."

Vivek was back with Devi and Henry now, and Lucy had gone, and Smriti felt fucking awful. Just plain awful.

"How are you holding up?" she asked Lianne, gnawing at her own bottom lip. She didn't know what answer she was hoping for: wanting her girlfriend to feel as bad as she did was probably a getting-reincarnated-as-a-cockroach offence, and she didn't really, of course, but, but selfishly, awfully she didn't want to be alone with this feeling, either. This hollow, aching grief-shock-loss.

"Not so great," Lianne said, her tone lightly ironic. "Verging on shit, in fact."

It was Smriti's turn to give Lianne's hand a squeeze, trying to communicate all the love, sympathy and understanding she could in one stupid gesture.

"I just can't help wondering," Lianne said. "Why? Why did someone do this? Who had George ever hurt?"

Smriti thought of her sister's face, twisted in in grief and regret. She thought of Henry's blank shock, leaving him coldly detached from the reality of the situation as he went through the motions of calling for an ambulance. She thought of Vivek's confused, angry tears when he caught the adults' mood.

"He was a good man," she said. "A doctor. He saved lives. Children's lives."

"Yeah, it's all shit, isn't it?" Lianne said. "All of it."

They looking at each other glumly for a while longer, neither finding the words to disagree with Lianne's pronouncement. Then Lianne clapped her hands together, putting on her best false cheer.

"Right! We're getting nothing done sitting around here moping. I'll go reheat us that stuff from Devi, and you can get started on my marking. Year Nine need those tests back by Wednesday."

Smriti forced herself to pull a face. "Thirty essays on the role of Mercutio in Romeo and Juliet?"

"Thirty-one," Lianne corrected her, reaching forward to tweak her nose. "_If love be rough with you, be rough with love; Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down._"

As Smriti batted at her nose, a sudden dizziness struck. She reached for some support, but it seemed to swing away from her at the last moment. It was getting hard to stand, and--

At least, Smriti thought as she collapsed, this would get her out of marking.

===

James took one last drag on his cigarette and threw the butt onto the ground. "We're still waiting on the toxicology report," he said, following Lewis past Magdalen College, "but they're saying it was the quick action of the girlfriend -- that's Bishop -- that saved her."

"Called an ambulance, saved the day?" Lewis asked, ably making his way past a crowd of tourists.

Some days Oxford was like a giant pinball machine, with its citizens batted through haphazardly like so many dented silver balls. Not the most profound thought he'd ever had.

"That sort of thing, sir," James agreed. "No one can confirm it was anything suspicious, but--" He tailed off.

"Yes, quite," Lewis said. "No one can confirm it wasn't. So who wants to kill Smriti Chopra, and why?"

"Could be the girlfriend," James suggested, thinking out loud. "Chopra and Bloom are having an affair, she kills Bloom, is all set to kill her partner but has a last minute change of heart."

"Could be," Lewis said, but he didn't sound convinced. "Or could be Lucy Ashe, both times trying to kill Chopra so she can have the lovely Lianne to herself."

"We don't have a clue, do we, sir?"

Lewis strode on. "Not in the slightest. And I don't have to tell you how cheerful that isn't making me."

"Sir," James agreed. It wasn't a day for bright ideas, at least not for him.

"You know what else isn't making me cheerful, young Hathaway?" Lewis asked.

They were passing Queen's College now, two students standing on the steps too busy necking -- if anyone still used that term -- to notice the passing world. In life's giant game of pinball, they looked as if they'd hit the highest scoring peg.

James made a noise of polite enquiry, and decided to abandon the pinball metaphor as soon as possible.

"You," Lewis said.

That seemed a bit rich, even coming from Lewis. James was just trying to ignore everything and get on with his job. Just like Lewis.

Lewis didn't bother to look round at him as he spoke. "Just come out with it, for God's sake, man. I'll take it on the chin."

James let out a long, slow breath. "No, sir, I don't think you will."

At that, Lewis did turn round, giving James a considering look that made him want to quote poetry until Lewis gave up in disgust.

_The appetite may sicken, and so die._

Whatever Lewis saw there, it was enough to make him scowl. "You know, you might be right, at that."

===

"Unidentified white male, early to mid thirties. Cause of death multiple blunt traumas to the head and neck." All of which was, James supposed, Dr Hobson's way of saying hello. "I said solve this one, Robbie, not let the body count pile up."

Whether two constituted a pile was a philosophical question James did not feel equipped to answer. He contented himself with staring at the corpse sprawled by the river, and with watching the crime techs take their photos.

"Sorry about that," Lewis said. He was, of course, wearing his ever-stylish blue scene suit. James could, he hoped, be forgiven for thinking it made them all look like pillocks.

Hobson made a _hmm_ noise.

"Anything else you can tell us about the attack?" James asked.

"The attacker had good aim," Hobson said. "These blows--" She pointed to bruises blossoming on the victim's skin. "--are enough to kill without needing a lot of strength behind them. The killer might well be a martial artist of some sort."

"Or a doctor?" Lewis prompted.

Good thought.

"If you're asking could I do it, the answer's yes, but I wouldn't go to the trouble: an attack like this could have gone wrong so easily, and I know many, many quicker ways to kill a man." She paused, considering the question. A moment later, her face fell. "And if you're asking could Devi have done it, the answer's no. She wouldn't."

"But anyone with a good enough knowledge of human anatomy could have done this?" Lewis persisted. "A doctor, a nurse, that sort of thing."

Hobson nodded, then shot a look of appeal at James. "Tell him it wasn't Devi."

"It wasn't Dr Monkford," James said obediently, earning himself two matching glares.

"That's quite enough of that," Lewis said, though there was a hint of amusement lurking behind the frown. And behind the hint of amusement there was something else, considering.

"I've got something else for you," Hobson said, "though I don't know how useful it's going to be."

Lewis gestured for her to go on, his scene suit rustling as he did so.

"I think I recognise this man. I don't know how, and I don't know from where, but I think I know his face."

James could actually see Lewis stop himself from asking if she could think how or where. "Thank you," Lewis said eventually. "We'll be putting out the usual search, missing persons, the rest of it, but if you can think of anything--"

"I know, I know, don't hesitate to call." Hobson flapped them on with her gloved hands. "Now go, solve crimes."

===  
===

"What are we missing?" Lewis asked, gripping the wheel of his car as if it were currently obstructing the cause of justice.

Direction; insight; any sort of clue. "We could try checking Dr Hobson's past places of work," James suggested. "See if the deceased was a colleague, like Bloom."

He could get some uniforms on that, make some rounds himself.

Lewis stared straight ahead, putting more focus than necessary on the road in front of him. "Get on that." He was refusing to look at James; had been -- on and off -- since their abortive conversation that morning on the High Street.

"Sir," James agreed.

"And pull Devi Monkford in for questioning. Hobson's character witness notwithstanding, she's still the best lead we've got. See if we can't rattle a motive out of her."

Hobson wouldn't be pleased about that, but Lewis was right, it was their best shot at getting something out of this investigation. What, exactly, remained to be seen.

Silence stretched out between them like an exit wound. There was nothing really to say; nothing Lewis would want to hear, anyway.

They'd been working together long enough it wouldn't reflect too badly on them if James put in for a transfer. There was only so long you were expected to be one copper's bagman, and--

"Do you--" Lewis started, then interrupted himself. "No."

At which point, mercifully, James' phone rang.

One brief conversation later, and at least they knew the victim's name.

"Tyler Jones, sir," James said. "Thirty-four years old, no record." He paused for effect. "Worked at Lianne Bishop's school."

That was something, at least.

"Right," Lewis said decisively. "Let's go ask some probing and intelligent questions."

James was amused in spite of himself. "I'll leave that to you, sir."

Lewis all but snorted in response. Then, with a little more weight than the comment deserved, he said, "There's always time to learn new tricks."

James tried not to get his hopes up.

===

Lianne sat staring at the policemen as politely as she could manage.

The older one -- white, with dark hair and a Northern accent -- spoke to the tape, reminding it and her that he was called Lewis and the other one -- also white, with blond hair and the most po-faced expression Lianne had seen outside of detention -- was called Hathaway.

Then Lewis spoke to her. "Where were you yesterday evening between the hours of eight and ten, Ms Bishop?"

They'd been through all this before, but she guessed he needed it for the tape. "At home, alone."

"And no one can confirm your whereabouts?" Lewis continued.

"No. My partner had a parent-teacher event at her school. She got back around eleven."

"Do you recognise this man?" Lewis asked, pushing a photo towards her on the table.

The photo was a bad one of Tyler Jones, but it was clearly him. She said as much.

"Is he okay?" she asked.

Behind Lewis, the other one looked as if he'd been caught chewing gum in assembly.

"How well would you say you knew him?" Lewis pushed on, which must be policeman speak for _No._

"To say hi, to chat occasionally," she said. "When I was giving up smoking, he would confiscate my cigarettes." She smiled at the memory: Tyler was good at sleight of hand, and knew how to make her cigarettes disappear and reappear with a flick of his wrist.

"Is he okay?" she asked again, this time determined not to cooperate until she had an answer.

He must have been able to read that in her tone, because Lewis answered, "No, I'm afraid he was found dead this morning by the river."

The words took a moment to filter through.

Shit. Shitshitshit. First George, then Smriti, now this.

Shit.

The men exchanged a look. They gave the impression of an old married couple having the same argument for the hundredth time. Idly, as if she hadn't just been told that Tyler Jones was dead, as if George Bloom hadn't died in front of her just days ago, idly she wondered what they were arguing about.

===

James sat, staring at the records open in front of him. His eyes ached, and it was well past time for all good coppers to be in bed, but somewhere hidden in Tyler Jones' details had to be some key to this. Some insight they were missing. Something.

"You're working late," Lewis said, appearing behind him with a cup of coffee.

"I could return the compliment," James pointed out.

"Fair enough," Lewis said. "Coffee?"

"You're a lifesaver, sir," James said.

"Let's hope so." Lewis put the coffee down next to him, leaning over James' shoulder to do so. It was late enough -- and the day had been long enough -- that James might, just for a second, have leant back into the touch.

"What have you got?" Lewis asked after a moment.

"Nothing." It was harder to keep a poker face after midnight. "Nothing at all."

"I know the feeling."

James let his hands close around the coffee and took another look at the computer screen. There must be something.

And then, between one breath and the next, there was.

"What have we here then?" he heard himself say, stalling for time as he thought this through. "Look." He pointed at the screen.

"What am I looking at?" Lewis leaned forward again. They were staring, cheek to cheek, at Jones' employment record.

It would take a stronger man than James not to pause for a moment before speaking.

"We know why Hobson recognised Jones."

"And do we feel like sharing with the class?"

"Oh sir, I think we've brought enough for everyone. Jones used to be a paediatric nurse. He used to work with Drs Monkford and Bloom. He gave up nursing when she gave up paediatrics. Devi Monkford is the connection."

Which meant either she was the killer, or she was going to be next.

He exchanged a look with Lewis.

"We're pulling her in," Lewis said. "We're pulling her in now."

===

When they pulled up to the Monkford's, it was almost one in the morning. If they were wrong -- or even if they were right -- the Monkfords weren't going to thank them for this.

Lewis rang the doorbell. "Right, let's see what she has to say for herself."

It was Henry Monkford who answered the door, wearing a dressing gown and mismatched slippers.

"Can I help you?" he asked, staring at them with bleary eyes.

"Is your wife in, Mr Monkford?" Lewis asked.

"My-- No," Monkford said. Then, "Her shift at the Radcliffe should be ending--" He paused. "What time is it?"

James made a show of looking at his watch. "12:50, sir."

"My god, do you people never sleep?"

James could see the effort it took Lewis not to remark that crime never slept, either. "Your wife, sir?"

"Her shift at the Radcliffe should have ended at midnight," Monkford said, "but you know how these things are. She promises to be home by half midnight, and the next thing you know it's three am."

They could easily contact her at the hospital. James had his mobile halfway out before he had a thought. "Do you know what route she normally takes home?" If she were the next victim--

"Oh, I'm sorry, I know where she is now," Monkford said blithely, as if his wife's life didn't hang in the balance. "A friend of ours called earlier, trying to get in touch -- she'll be round there now."

"And this friend is?" James prompted.

"Lucy," Monkford said, his words slowing as he finally listened to what he was saying. "Lucy Ashe. Do you think she might be in danger?"

James had never in his life said _duh_ to anyone, and wasn't about to start now.

"Mr Monkford," Lewis said, with more patience than James could manage right now, "can you tell us where Lucy Ashe lives? Right now."

===

Lewis drove, while James called the hospital. Devi Monkford had left ten minutes ago, of course, because nothing could ever be simple.

"Her baby," Lewis said, eyes on the road as he sped to Ashe's flat. "Lucy Ashe lost a baby."

It all fell into place. "What's the bet," James said slowly, measuring out each word, "that Bloom and Monkford were working in paediatrics at the time?"

"The same money gives you Tyler Jones worked there then, too," Lewis said grimly.

"The same money gives me the creeps, sir."

They leapt out of the car and ran towards Ashe's flat, Lewis calling for backup as they went.

There was a door in the way, and James dimly remembered kicking it down, but nothing really sunk in until they saw the knife.

It was wicked-looking, long and sharp and glinting in the half-light of Ashe's dim hallway. She was pointing at Monkford with a steady hand.

"Ms Ashe," James tried, stepping forward. "Lucy. We can-- We know about your child."

"She killed my son," Ashe shouted, her voice already hoarse. "She and that awful, arrogant shit of a doctor and that nurse-turned-dinner-lady, Jones. I'm sorry about Smriti, I'm glad she's okay, but they-- They killed my son."

"It was-- There was nothing we could have done," Monkford said, her shaking voice trying to soothe. "There was an inquiry, we were cleared. There was nothing we could have done to save him."

"My son," Ashe repeated, half-squatting as she turned to wave her knife at all three of them. "I thought it would feel better when you died, but it doesn't. The ache-- I wanted you to _know_."

James took another step forward. "We can help."

Ashe moved to look him in the eye. "_No_," she said, and -- with one quick, fluid motion -- slit her own throat.

Blood splashing out over him, the last thing James remembered was Monkford's voice sobbing out, "We were cleared. We were cleared."

===

"There was a moment," Lewis said, gratefully accepting the coffee James handed him, "when I thought she was going to go for you."

"Sir?"

They were standing in the shadow of the Rad Cam, listening to the bells ring. James was leaning against the railings, trying not to think past the moment they were in.

"No, don't _sir_ me, I'm trying to--" Lewis paused. "I'm not very good at this, you know."

James maintained a polite silence. Polite but encouraging; he'd been a uniformed officer, he could do that.

"I'm old." Lewis took a sip of his coffee. "I'm old, and this coffee's bad, but I'm still used to it. I couldn't take up tea, not at my age."

And there it was. All there was to be said. He'd done his best, he hadn't pushed, and still, there it was.

"I'm not asking you to." He felt like a petulant child, standing there waiting to be told he was getting sent off to boarding school again.

"But you are," Lewis said. "You're asking me to take up tea and dunk biscuits in it and know the difference between Assam and Earl bloody Grey. Just by being you, you're asking."

"I don't mean to insult your analogy, sir," James said, talking so he didn't have to think, "but can we abandon it?" And possibly leave it somewhere to die, along with the rest of this excruciating conversation.

"I worked hard on this." Lewis' tone was straining to be light. It missed. "I don't have a lot of poetry in me to spare."

James gestured with his cup for Lewis to go on.

"I'm saying, can we try-- Damn. What's a compromise between coffee and tea?"

James thought about this for a moment. "One that isn't sufficiently off-putting as to render this analogy offensive?"

"Yes."

"Can't help you there."

They stood like that for a while, leaning against the railings.

"You know what?" Lewis said. "I think you can."

He paused to look at James, and for a moment, James felt something almost a bit like hope.

"Come for a pint." Lewis said, pushing himself off the railings. "We'll work something out."

===  
End  
===

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